and you may talk of powers. of levitation in the dark field of India of a buoyant disposition that cradles the soft waves of perception, the myriad of vessels to fill with such ignorance is vast and proof of the deep reckoning. my face quivers its ash off. the hunched over recipe for forgiveness has festooned the horizon and such strides as it would take to arrive have jettisoned from my repose. all i need is what I have and all i have is what i don’t need. It’s a strange crossroads, ravished by gratitude and speaking with petty certainty, jovial decency while inside a sinking weight trespasses on all my receptors. where have you sunk Hawaii? why have you cast my soul into your net? The new buzzwords off the Internet are so stupid that they make me react vile and off-putting, and these pleasant talks and too easy thoughts make they who speak worthless. and it is I who is such and so obvious do I drink perception. these fruits are made wine by the children. they have perfect selves and imperfect lives. The school circles them into penned foolery and makes buffoons of there instincts. and my garden is respite, until it becomes a chore like all things. the soft knowledge of love becomes all I can focus on, that and some ambition of focus. some thought of a better station where the sets are paced in rhythm with that of the goddess the god, the cycle of what must be. but it’s elusive and time moves slow and despondent. i climb into the future like a crawling baby through a corridor, clinging to loyally and drowning the perception of the certain certainty of where i should be doing what. and i do not have the time or the patience to be dealing with the banalities of existence. but the tree is spared its pain by the falling of leaves. their song is muted by the fall. recollected they sing, they testify that they caused my life. i haven’t grown new ones. just these old leaves. autumn bleeding into black into a hue of red that would match the horizon and cast into the air its skin shakes the walls the birds wink the lips pucker the sounds are the call. i must go back.
